“She’s headed to Paul Levinson’s hotel room,” Dez said.
“But she didn’t end up there,” Fenway said. “Did she?”
“As far as I know, she was back in her room after Levinson’s body was found.”
“Maybe she went to bang on the door and demand that Levinson let Maggie out of his room,” Fenway said. “We heard Maggie say Annabel was nagging her to stop letting Coach Levinson get in her head.”
If you don’t do something about Maggie and that monster, I will.
“Let’s see how long she’s gone.”
Ezekiel slowed the playback down to normal speed.
“What time did she exit the elevator?” Fenway asked.
“12:18 a.m.,” Dez said.
“If she knocked on the coach’s door and he didn’t answer, she should be back in a couple of minutes.”
Dez and Fenway waited, leaning forward slightly, as the seconds ticked by on the video timecode.
“Four minutes,” Dez said. “He must have answered the door.”
“We don’t know if she went to see Coach Levinson,” Fenway said. “Maybe she went to the Neons’ owner to complain about him.”
“Or it might not be related,” Dez said. “She could have met with one of the assistant coaches to—I don’t know, ask about a soccer strategy or something.”
“We’ll interview her,” Fenway said, “but I like to know the answers to the questions before I ask.”
The corners of Dez’s mouth tugged upward. “Six minutes.”
“Want me to fast forward?” Ezekiel asked. He placed his hand on the dial and twisted it clockwise. The recording went forward ten minutes, then fifteen. The elevator picked up a man in a suit on the ground floor and deposited him on the third floor. Two players from the team entered on the ground floor and exited on the sixth floor.
“Annabel’s been on the ninth floor a long time,” Dez said.
The time code read 1:37 a.m., almost an hour and a half after Annabel had gotten off the elevator on the ninth floor. The elevator dipped to the ground floor again—
—and Annabel Shedd entered the elevator.
Fenway looked at Dez. “What just happened?”
“Did we miss Annabel getting on the elevator on the ninth floor?”
“No, ma’am,” Ezekiel said. “I was here watching it like a hawk, same as you. I can tell you without a doubt she did not get on the elevator in the last hour and a half.”
“Let’s watch it again.”
But the results were the same. Annabel never got back on the elevator on the ninth floor.
“The stairs,” Fenway said. “She had to have left via the stairs.”
Ezekiel frowned. “But the stairs don’t open into any of the other floors. You can get into the stairwell from any of the floors, but you can only exit the stairs from the ground floor.”
“Where’s the exit for the stairwell? The lobby?”
“The parking garage. There’s a walkway connecting Broadway and San Ysidro,” Ezekiel said.
“Any cameras down there?”
“Two. They focus on the vehicle lanes, though.”
Fenway shook her head. “Are there trash cans in the side alley? Maybe a dumpster?”
“Trash cans in the parking garage for sure.”
Fenway put her hands on her hips. “We don’t have a suspect pool limited to the people on the ninth floor anymore. Any of them could have exited via the stairs, or held the door to the stairwell open from the inside.”
“Not for more than thirty seconds, remember,” Ezekiel said.
“Right,” replied Fenway. “And without camera coverage in the hallways or on the outside door, we can’t be sure who was on the ninth floor or not.”
Dez folded her arms. “I’m afraid you’ve got a point.”
Fenway paced in a small circle. “Dez, can you keep going here?”
“Uh, sure,” Dez said. “You coming back?”
“I don’t know—I’m going to clear my head. See if there’s another way I can look at this.” Fenway opened the door and left the small video room.
She walked into the narrow hallway, then turned and was out the front door. The driveway for the parking lot emptied out onto Broadway. She strode across the small lot and turned right onto the sidewalk, not sure where she was going.
She pulled out her phone and dialed McVie.
“McVie Investigations.”
“Hi, Craig. You’ve heard the news?”
“About Coach Flash’s firing? Yeah, Mathilda Montague was on the phone with me as soon as the press conference was over. She’s harping on me to figure out what it means for Annabel.”
“Not only his firing.” Fenway sucked in air through her teeth. “Craig, I had to disclose what we did last night—your investigation into Annabel, what we were doing at Maxime’s, and my little adventure in the Uber with Maggie.”
“What? That could ruin the investigation. Who did you tell?”
“Dez, for one. I didn’t have a choice. There’s been a murder.”
“A—a murder?”
“Yes. And it’s Coach Levinson.”
McVie paused. “The victim? Or the murderer?”
“The victim.”
He breathed out long and slow.
“I’m sorry, Craig—I know I used to tell you details when you were sheriff, but now I can’t.”
“Yeah, I know how it is.”
“I can’t guarantee I can keep Mathilda Montague out of this, either,” Fenway said. “I’ll try, but we might have some questions for her—”
“I wish you could avoid that,” McVie said.
“I really don’t want to get you in the middle of this, Craig. I know how much business Montague could bring in.”
“You go solve the murder,” McVie said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to make a call.”
Fenway looked up. She was walking fast and found herself six blocks past the hotel, heading down Broadway toward the heart of downtown. She’d be at the coroner’s office building in another four or five blocks.
She hoped the Neons wouldn’t close ranks—she hoped to interview them to get evidence. As it was, even if Maggie or Annabel had dealt Levinson the fatal blow, the video could be used to provide reasonable doubt for both of them. Fenway sighed. Without more physical evidence, it would be tough to attain an indictment against either Maggie or Annabel—never mind a conviction.
The mid-morning was overcast, and Fenway shivered. She only had a thin blazer, and while this weather would have been balmy in a Seattle March, she’d started to get used to the milder weather of the California coast.
The sun broke through the clouds. She lifted her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes—she’d left her sunglasses at home. She stopped walking and let the sunlight wash over her.
The sun went back behind a cloud a moment later, and a breeze started, gentle at first, then strengthening until a few blossoms from a birch tree fluttered off a branch. If Fenway’s hair had been as long as it had been a few months ago, it would have been over her face.
She would need to widen the net she was casting for suspects. Yes, Maggie was the lead suspect right now. Perhaps she’d had so much to drink that she finally got angry enough at Coach Levinson’s coercion to kill him. And perhaps she’d been so drunk she tossed her bloody clothes in the shower along with the golf club and passed out in the king bed in the coach’s bedroom.
Means, motive, opportunity.
Levinson could have opened the door for anyone—players, other coaches, the owner, even hotel staff. And he was killed with a golf club that was within easy reach.
As for motive—it would be easier finding someone who didn’t have a reason to hate him.
So Fenway would have to think laterally. Get evidence she didn’t yet have.
Like the two missing towels.
The staircase as a means of exiting the hotel without getting on camera. Garbage cans in the parking garage or outside a nearby fast-food place or mini-mart.
Then it struck her—the tennis bracelet.
She wasn’t sure if it had anything to do with the murder, but Dez had been right to point out that the theft of the tennis bracelet might be related to Levinson’s firing.
She needed to go back to the hotel.
Several minutes later, Fenway walked up the driveway of the Broadmere and entered the lobby. The light twinkled off a crystal vase on an end table.
She walked into the elevator, went up to the ninth floor, and knocked on the door to Sandra Christchurch’s suite.
Nothing.
She knocked again, a little louder, but was greeted with only silence. Fenway listened carefully; nothing from inside at all. No sound of the television or music, no footsteps.
She stepped back, her shoulders slightly slumped, and went back to the elevator.
When she exited into the lobby, she took her badge out of her purse and made a beeline for the reception desk. The clerk looked up with large, watery eyes behind a pair of thick glasses. “May I help you?”
Fenway held up her badge. “Have you seen Sandra Christchurch leave the hotel? She’s not in her room.”
The clerk pointed to the restaurant. “She went in there about fifteen minutes ago.” He tilted his head. “You’re Fenway Stevenson, aren’t you?”
She nodded, her ears getting hot.
“Your father is Nathaniel Ferris, right? He’s in there too. I believe they had a business meeting.”
Oh—of course. Who better to get information from on how to successfully run a women’s soccer team than a woman who’d done it herself?
It might not be polite to interrupt their meeting, but this was a murder investigation. She straightened her blazer and walked into the posh restaurant adjoining the Broadmere. Her dad was sitting at a table with Sandra Christchurch, two flutes of mimosas between them.
In the mid-morning on a Friday, Nathaniel Ferris and Sandra Christchurch were the only ones in the dining room. Ferris leaned forward, elbows on the table, looking attentively at Christchurch. Fenway thought it was the most engaged she’d seen her father in a long time. Certainly the most enthusiastic he’d been since selling his oil company.
Fenway felt her shoulders lighten. Getting into a new type of business would be good for Nathaniel Ferris—if it was the right kind of business. It would certainly keep his mind off the demanding physical therapy he needed.
Making sure to keep her stride casual, Fenway walked up to the table. “Hi, Dad.”
Nathaniel Ferris looked up and blinked. “Oh, Fenway, good morning.” He motioned to Sandra Christchurch. “Have you met the owner of the Las Vegas Neons?”
The woman across from Nathaniel Ferris was petite but broad-shouldered, with white-blonde hair, a small nose, a strong jawline, and piercing gray eyes. Fenway shook her head.
“May I introduce you, then?” Ferris asked. “Sandra Christchurch, I’m delighted to introduce my daughter, Dominguez County Coroner Fenway Stevenson.”
“Pleasure,” Christchurch said.
“Ms. Christchurch,” she said. “Of course, I know you by reputation, but we haven’t formally met.”
Ferris turned to Fenway. “I’ve noticed a lot of police activity at the hotel,” Ferris said. “Did something happen?”
Fenway nodded. “Yes. We had a death reported this morning.” She tilted her head at Christchurch. “Actually, that’s why I’m here. Your hotel suite is on the same floor as the decedent’s hotel room.”
“Yes.” Christchurch folded her hands and stared down at the table, her voice calm and even. “I heard Coach Levinson was found this morning. I do indeed have a suite on the same floor as his.”
Ferris sat up straight in his chair. “And you still agreed to this meeting?”
Christchurch raised her head. “I don’t wish to dwell on what I can’t control. Work is something I can focus on. I can be productive, even in a dark time like this.”
“If you’re sure—”
Christchurch waved her hand at Ferris, almost dismissive.
Fenway leaned over the table slightly. “We’ve been attempting to interview everyone on the ninth floor before they left their rooms.”
“Well, as you most likely know,” Sandra Christchurch said, “I had a press conference this morning in the Pacific Crest Ballroom, across the lobby.”
“Did you hear or see anything when you left your room this morning?”
“No.” She cast her eyes down. “I think the topic of my press conference may have had some direct bearing on Coach Levinson’s unfortunate passing.”
“When did you return to your room?”
“I haven’t been back. I’ve been right here since the press conference. I felt certain the police wouldn’t want me to leave the hotel—especially since I reported a theft this morning.”
Ferris’s jaw dropped open. “A theft?”
“The bracelet Warren gave me two years ago.”
“Oh, no,” Ferris said. “You didn’t leave it back home?”
“I wear it all the time. It means a lot to me.”
“I’m sure it does.”
Christchurch turned back to Fenway. “And as I had a meeting with Mr. Ferris this morning, I thought it would be wise to move the location of the meeting from his house to this restaurant.” She gestured at the room, empty but for the three of them and the waitstaff. “Seems like we’re about as alone here as we would have been at his house.” She narrowed her eyes. “Except for you, of course, Miss Stevenson.”
Fenway heard the slight bite to Christchurch’s tone.
Ferris chuckled. “Well, Sandra, not only is Fenway Stevenson the county coroner, but she’s also proven herself to be a trusted advisor in several of my business ventures.” He glanced at Fenway; pride flashed briefly in his eyes. “She did quite well several months ago when she found herself in the precarious position of advising my company when I was out of commission. She identified potential risks, managed the public face of the business, and facilitated what became an extremely lucrative sale of my energy company.”
Fenway felt her ears burn.
Ferris put his hands flat on the table. “Any scenario in which I become a majority owner of any team—existing or expansion—I would consult with Fenway extensively before making a final decision.”
Sandra Christchurch’s eyebrows raised, then her face softened. “I know how valuable it is to have someone you trust in matters of business.” She glanced at Fenway. “I suppose I’m heartened that you appreciate what a big decision this is, even for somebody with your resources, Nathaniel. However, no matter your daughter’s experience, she shouldn’t be the only one to have a say.”
“I have lawyers.”
“And I have some questions for you,” Fenway said to Christchurch.
“Of course.” Christchurch looked up at Fenway. “Well, then, if you don’t mind terribly, Nathaniel, let me have a conversation with Miss Stevenson about the tragedy of Coach Levinson’s suicide, and then we’ll continue the less pressing matters of team ownership.”
Suicide? Fenway tried to keep her face impassive.
Christchurch turned to the server standing next to the bar and raised her empty coffee cup. The server nodded and walked briskly to the coffee station.
Ferris stood and held on to the table for support. For a moment, he quavered before standing up straight. “I know it’s before noon, but I believe I shall avail myself of a libation or two at the bar.” He winked at Fenway. “The joys of being completely retired. At least for a little while.” He took a few small steps toward the bar, adjusted his sportscoat, and began to take another step.
Fenway stopped him with a hand on his back and leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Dad,” she said, “where is your cane?”
“It’s in the car,” Nathaniel Ferris said. “I am not meeting with the most visible and powerful owner in the AFF looking like some kind of invalid.”
Fenway’s mouth turned down. “Come on, Dad.”
“I’m sorry if it’s an offensive thing to say, but that’s business. I can’t look weak. It puts me in a bad negotiating position.”
Fenway shook her head. “It is much too soon for you to be walking without support. At least grab onto my arm. I’ll accompany you over to the bar like a good daughter.”
“You’re being ridiculous.” A bead of sweat appeared on Nathaniel Ferris’s forehead.
Fenway took her father’s arm and began to walk with him. “I think you’re the one being ridiculous if you keep insisting you can do everything by yourself. You’ll be able to again—I know it. But for now, you need a cane.”
“It looks silly.”
“You have the money to make it bad-ass. Get some sort of jewel-encrusted sword disguised as a cane so it, uh, enhances your presence.”
Ferris managed a smile. “That would look pretty cool.”
“Besides,” Fenway said, “what would really give you a bad negotiating position is falling over, smacking your head on the corner of a table, and ending up on the floor with your head split open.”
Nathaniel Ferris grunted.
“Picture this instead, Dad. Imagine yourself showing up with a crystal walking stick that makes you look like a wizard. Or some highly polished titanium high-tech cane that makes everyone think you’re a British spy.”
Ferris chuckled. “I appreciate your insight into my character, Fenway.”
“Here we go, now.”
They arrived at the bar, and Ferris sat down heavily on a stool, exhaling loudly. “I promise you, I’m fine. I’ll have a Bloody Mary.”
“The mimosa wasn’t enough?”
“It’s just orange juice, Fenway. Maybe I’ll have a little appetizer to give myself some strength.”
“No carpaccio.”
He patted her hand. “I’ll have a boring selection of crudités and you can report to Charlotte what a good boy I’ve been.”
“All right, Dad, fine. Get whatever you want.” Fenway looked over her shoulder; Sandra Christchurch leaned forward in her chair and stared at her.
Fenway clapped her father on the shoulder, plastered a determined look on her face, and strode toward the table.